


Glass Cases and Gilded Cages

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Kink Meme, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tyrion refuses to consummate his marriage to Sansa, Tywin orders Jaime to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Cases and Gilded Cages

 

 

The silence thins the air, chills it, each moment colder and crueler than the one before.  He stands rooted to the ground; he does not even glance at the door anymore, for he knows that his father will notice (and he still quails at the glint of golden eyes, as though he were a child again- the Kingslayer subdued by nothing more than a look).    
  
When Lord Tywin speaks at last, Jaime would swear that even the walls tremble at the sound.  “It is a simple matter, Tyrion.  One way or another, a Lannister man will be inside this girl tonight.  Either you will do your duty and bed your wife, or you will watch as your brother does it for you.”  
  
A twinge of sickness plucks at his insides when Tyrion turns to look at him.  His brother stands by the bed, naked and furious and grotesque, but there’s a peculiar pride in the carriage of his shoulders that Jaime quite nearly envies.  He deliberately avoids making eye contact with Tyrion; the blazing hatred that he’s sure to encounter might be enough to strike him blind.  
  
But the Imp does not stare at his brother for long.  His mismatched eyes meet Lord Tywin’s gaze boldly, his voice laden with steel when he says, “You may bluster at at me all you like, Father, but I’ll not do it.”    
  
 _Because of course this is a ruse, nothing but smoke.  He doesn’t mean it in earnest, he can’t..._  
  
But then, when Jaime considers everything and realizes that this would hardly be the most vicious act that Tywin Lannister has committed against his own blood, the cold dread sinks deeper and deeper...  
  
He is not sure what possesses him next.  The morbid solemnity of the situation rankles at his very soul, but surely he should know that this is no time for levity-  
  
Nevertheless, he forces his face into something vaguely resembling a smile, his voice higher than usual and artificially jocular.  “Well, Father, if all you need is a Lannister man, you might as well have brought Joffrey in here.  I’m sure he’d be all too eager to help.”  
  
A squeak from the bed, soft but undeniable.  Sansa has spoken not a word during this exchange; she’s been sitting still, back against the headboard, staring ahead with eyes that scarcely seem to see.  But she’s returned to the room now, her hands clasped over her mouth, obviously trying to keep from shaking.    
  
(The terror in her blue, blue eyes is naked and animal, and he nearly wishes that he had his dagger with him, that he might put her out of her suffering as he would a petrified, injured doe.)  
  
His father replies with quiet menace.  “Joffrey is a Baratheon.”    
  
Before Jaime can properly curse himself for his fool tongue, Tywin continues.  
  
“But perhaps it is not such a bad notion.  The kings of old would take the first rights before passing a bride to her husband.  Perhaps we should allow Joffrey the same privilege.”  
  
Sansa winches her eyes tight and begins to murmur something incoherent.  Tyrion’s voice is quiet, but Jaime does not miss the tremble.  
  
“You wouldn’t.”  
  
“Wouldn’t I?”  Tywin turns and makes for the door; before he can exit, Tyrion shouts-  
  
“Stop.”    
  
He hoists himself up onto the bed and places a hand on Sansa’s knee; she does not look at him, but she flinches as though he’d pricked her with a pin.    
  
“I’m sorry, my lady.”   
  
She opens her eyes and nods, allowing Tyrion to push her knees apart- again with those vacant eyes, as though her soul has abandoned her flesh and sought refuge somewhere else.  Jaime watches, mute and horrified, as Tyrion positions himself between her legs, as his fingers softly stroke over her thigh-  
  
But after a few moments, he pulls away from her, teeth gritted together and eyes downcast.  Although he has not moved or spoken in some time, Lord Tywin’s presence assails every sense, and Jaime’s stomach drops when he realizes why Tyrion has withdrawn from his wife.  
  
The Imp turns his head toward Sansa, unable to look at her fully when he says, “I’m so sorry.”  
  
Tyrion slides from the bed.  Tywin stares at him with a cruel, twisted grimace on his lips, and Jaime follows his father’s gaze to the source: Tyrion’s cock, hanging flaccid between his legs.    
  
“And here I took you for a man,” Tywin hisses.  “A sad mistake on my part.”    
  
He turns to his elder son.  “Well, Jaime?”  
  
The dry laugh pushes up his throat, sounding more like a cough when it escapes his mouth.  “Surely you aren’t serious.”  
  
“Have you ever known me for a joking man?”  
  
Jaime closes his eyes.  It’s all too vile for words- when his father pushed him past this door, slamming it shut in Cersei’s face when she tried to slip in after them, he never thought, could never have imagined...  
  
“No.”  He barks the syllable as forcefully as he can- _ I’m no child to be ordered about.  I’m Lord Commander of the Kingsguard-_  
  
“No?” Tywin steps closer to Jaime; they are of a height, Tywin’s gold-flecked gaze perfectly level with his son’s emerald one.  “You would defy my orders?”  
  
“I would.”  He keeps his eyes open and focused- _I’ve stared men in the face while sticking my sword into their chests and watching the life drain from them.  I’ll not look away like a coward now._  
  
His father pivots away from him with a slow shake of his head.  “It’s a pretty pair of eunuchs I’ve fathered.”  And to Jaime’s surprise and horror, Tywin reaches for his own breeches and begins to untie the laces.  
  
“What are you doing?”   
  
“What neither of my sons will.”  Once the ties are unfastened, Tywin approaches the bed, all but shoving Tyrion out of the way.  “Spread your legs, girl.”  
  
Jaime finds that he cannot look at the girl on the bed, and he instead locks eyes with Tyrion.  And the seething despair- he hasn’t seen anything like it since that day so many years ago, when the entire Lannister guard took turns rutting between the crofter’s daughter’s legs.  It is a desperate, violent, pained helplessness, beneath which Jaime detects something even more devastating- a hint of a plea.   
  
A rush of energy bursts into Jaime’s chest, and he brings his golden hand down hard on his father’s shoulder, pushing him to the side.  “Don’t.”    
  
But before Lord Tywin can call his guard in ( _for he’d set his men on us, no question, and what chance would an unarmed, one-handed knight and a naked dwarf have against them?_ ), Jaime climbs on the bed and leans over Sansa, his left hand absently stroking her hair.  
  
(Her face, impossibly still and flawless, frozen into a blankness he’s only seen on cadavers.)  
  
“Get out, Tyrion,” Lord Tywin snaps, tossing a dressing gown at his younger son.  The Imp throws the robe over his shoulders, but he does not budge.  
  
“Get out, or I’ll have my men drag you out.”    
  
Tyrion spares him only the briefest of glares, but it sends a chill to Jaime’s spine, lingering long after the door slams shut.  
  
“Is it too much to hope that you might follow my brother out?” Jaime asks through clenched teeth.    
  
“I’ll not move from this spot until you penetrate her.”  
  
It occurs to him to think of Cersei, but he realizes (to his absolute disgust) that there is no need.  Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, perhaps the glacial but undeniable beauty of the girl beneath him, perhaps the perverted fancy that he might be helping her, protecting her from a worse fate...  
  
 _Or perhaps the smallfolk have been wrong all these years.  Perhaps I, not my brother, am the Monster of Casterly Rock._  
  
He unlaces his breeches and shifts his hips between Sansa’s thighs.  His hard cock barely brushes against her, but she shudders; his finger gently probes her opening, and his heart grows still heavier when he finds her dry as a bone.   
  
(It’s almost comical, when he thinks of it later, that he would have expected anything different.)  
  
“I’m waiting.”    
  
In a sudden fury, Jaime bares his teeth and all but snarls at his father- _what has this girl done, that you’d have her used so poorly?_ But Lord Tywin remains thoroughly immovable and unimpressed.  
  
Jaime returns his attention to Sansa.  She stares up at the ceiling, and the candlelight catches in her eyes, eyes that do not blink.  He thinks, absurdly, of a fairy story he’d heard years ago, a story of a princess long dead, entrapped in a glass case, and a kiss that restores her to life.    
  
As soon as his lips land on Sansa’s, he realizes his mistake- had he any sense of decency, he’d have turned her onto her hands and knees and spared her any false intimacies.  It’s cruel and cheap, what he’s done, and he feels that he may become sick-  
  
But there is no time, no place for that.   His nausea only deepens when he presses the tip of his cock into her tight, unyielding cunt- _it’s the only thing that will get him out, that will get his eyes off of her, off of me..._  
  
“You haven’t broken her maidenhead,” Lord Tywin clips.  “When I see blood, then I will leave.”   
  
Jaime looks at Sansa, but she refuses to shift her gaze from the ceiling.  The next moment hangs suspended in time, crystallized like the most vivid image from a nightmare.  He sees every muscle in her face contort when he thrusts into her, ice-blue eyes shutting tight, mouth splitting in a silent scream.  He releases a groan- of _what_ , he hates to think- and when he pulls back, he sees a slick of crimson on his cock, the stain spreading to the bedsheet below.    
  
“Thank you, Jaime.”    
  
And before Jaime can think of something defiant and furious to say, Lord Tywin pivots and strides to the door.  When it slams behind him, the sound echoes harsh and final.  
  
A hand clenches on his right wrist; it takes him a moment to notice, for the nerves are so weak there.  He turns his head to look at the girl- he’s still partially inside her, and the warm blood wets her channel in a way that’s upsettingly pleasurable-  
  
Her gaze has moved down to him, and he feels his mouth go dry.  The distant, dreamlike haze has not vanished, not completely, but there’s an urgency beneath, a vibrant desperation that Jaime does not understand, but that pierces his heart all the same.  
  
She speaks, her voice high and quiet.  “Is this real?”  
  
And for a moment, he thinks of taking her face between his hands, looking her in the eye and telling her no, no, it’s only a dream, it’s a terrible dream, and when she wakes, it will be done and she can forget.    
  
But to indulge her in that little fantasy, that little falsehood...that would be the cruelest act of all.   
  
“Yes,” he tells her, his whisper too quick and brisk to be apologetic.    
  
Her face moves when he thrusts into her again, twitches and stretches and pinches.  But the brief flash of life fades from her eyes as quickly as it came- she stares into nothingness, her eyes beautiful and empty.    
  
The princess closes herself back into her glass case, and Jaime reminds himself to be grateful, for dead girls feel no pain.  

 

 


End file.
